chimes behind the backdrop of your brain.
Dennis Wilson with paranoid shins, "i wish i coulda done one,"
"–-won" says he
standing on the dock before the sea of mirrors
behind the curtain.
steps in, expecting to find 'imself there.
poor shoveled crossman.
wheeling through the thikkets in wheel boots
grabbing the ground with gum and honey arms.
bent leg bends
earns five tens
pay for a good amount of schwag
or whatever else.
poor alex, nobody will leave her to write a poem.
doors slamming their shouts
dishes meddling with one another
a bottle of whiskey for my birthday's what i want